


Autumn Colours

by drawingblinds (breathtaken)



Category: Rent - Larson
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-19
Updated: 2006-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/drawingblinds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Angel as a woman is accurate and not exaggerated, just taking what she started with and making it female. And something in this simplicity and lack of pretension is beautiful.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumn Colours

It's the hair, first, that makes Mark's breath stop, jolt at the back of his throat as he walks down East 9th on the way to the laundromat. The bright warm yellow-gold, the colour of wheat fields in August back at his grandparents' place in Iowa, himself running and hiding from Cindy among their tall, regal stalks. She's the fair, temperate early autumn days playing make-believe by an icy stream that he sometimes remembers when running the tap, feeling the loss in his brown-and-grey city existence, only the baser hues the earth can offer. With a scarlet jacket and blue-purple patterned skirt she's a burst of colour on a drab East Village street, and it's the first thing that's made him take notice in a long time. She's a man, of course, the strong jawline and protruding Adam's apple tell him that straight away, but that hardly matters when she's this strange kind of beautiful that he barely understands and doesn't think he's ever seen.

She's drumming on a plastic tub, the complicated beat she's keeping strong yet subtle, and he throws down a pocket full of coins - his laundry money - as he passes. "Hey, thanks!" she says, looking up. A male voice, light and smooth, but he'd kind of been expecting that. Their gazes lock and he feels a strong, unexplainable warmth emanating from her deep dark eyes. She's brightness and vivacity, and he can feel himself lingering because he can't bear to walk on past this woman (who may not quite be a woman but who gives a damn anyway) who has suddenly burst onto his field of vision, this curious light, and for the first time in many months he feels the chill in his bones fading away.

"Hi. I'm Mark. Hi." He stumbles, feeling himself grinning and mentally cursing himself out for being such a dork. _Well done, Mr Smooth_. He laughs humourlessly, wishing at that moment that he could trade in every bit of knowledge he holds of colour and composition, every reel of film he's ever shot for the ability to form a complete sentence without sounding like the world's biggest goofball. _I'm so stupid...why am I doing this?_ His scarf feels prickly round his neck and suddenly too warm.

"Hi." She smiles, wide, flashing a row of white teeth that are somehow beacons in themselves. "I'm Angel." The look on her face is knowing, and Mark hates himself for being so transparent, suddenly feeling younger than his (almost) twenty-one years.

Angel? On anyone else it would have been a laughable name, especially considering the fact that he was supposed to be in the laundromat by now and she'd struck him dumb in his tracks. Yet on her it is neither pretentious nor amusing, but just sits exactly right. _Oh God, I'd love to film her,_ he found himself thinking. _Film her just like this_ , all autumn colours and sparkling with life.

"Uh..." He has no idea what to say next. There's no overlap between the thoughts in his brain and social convention, so he stands and feels his jaw hanging open, and all that time she has that soft, teasing smile. "Coffee?" He blurts out blankly. It's the first thing in his mind that's not a jumble of _oh God_ and _how beautiful_ and _be with me_ and _Roger will never let me live this down._ He just knows he can't walk on past and he wants to get to know her. Her life, her dreams, the geometry of her body, texture of her skin - _no, wait. Don't get ahead of yourself._

She is silent for a moment, searching. He tries not to jump to conclusions in his mind, knowing that a pause and a slight frown can mean a thousand things, and he shouldn't just decide that he's freaked her out or anything before he has some evidence, though that doesn't stop the possibility from gnawing at him all the same. So he is almost surprised when she smiles and replies, "Sure. Where do you wanna go?"

"The Life?" It's the only place he can think of. "It's not far." He just hopes to God that none of his friends are there, because he can't think how to explain this, any of it yet. Suddenly something occurs to him, and he falters. "But -"

"Yeah?" She quirks an eyebrow.

"I gave you all my money just then." He feels stupid, again, because now he can't buy the coffee, she'll have to buy it. And though such notions of chivalry are completely outdated with any woman, not least a woman who started off life as a man, the rules of his middle class upbringing are very clear on one point: it is always his turn to buy the coffee. 

She laughs. "Don't worry about it." As she picks up her things he notices her hands, slightly larger than his, and noticeably male despite the painted nails. They are medium length and electric blue, and he feels suddenly glad they're not fake. His only experience with this kind of thing is seeing drag queens in clubs, and they always look cheap, somehow dissonant. Their nails are too long, lipstick too bright, breasts too large, as if they've overshot in their quest for femininity. They end up not as women but as parodies of them, and he's never known if that's what they're going for but he always feels vaguely sorry for them. By contrast, Angel as a woman is accurate and not exaggerated, just taking what she started with and making it female. And something in this simplicity and lack of pretension is beautiful.

"I could pawn this laundry, but then I wouldn't have any clothes either." He laughs harshly and nervously, suddenly feeling like he's channeling his grandfather, who has that habit old people have of saying really obvious things and thinking they're really clever jokes. Then in the next beat he wonders what he's doing having such weird thoughts, instead of thinking about something useful like how not to be completely inept in social situations. Perhaps a part of his brain was shocked into inactivity when he met Angel and now all he can think of is stupid things his grandpa does and how he really wants to kiss her.

She slips the money back into his coat pocket, hand brushing his hip. He starts, unsure if it was intentional. "Let's go to mine then. I've got coffee, and that way you can afford your laundry. Follow me." She sets off down the street, slightly ahead of him, and _those heels are massive, how the hell does she walk in those?_ he wonders, looking at the black patent platforms and thinking that maybe there is a little bit of the drama queen there after all.

As they walk the couple of blocks to her house, she asks him the usual getting-to-know-you questions - how old he is, what he does with life, what his interests are. Mark answers as best he can and tries to ask them back in turn, but his mind is doing overtime. Because now they're not going to the Life, they're going to hers. And he feels like he should be okay with this, seeing as he started it in the first place, but the truth is he's not sure if this is supposed to mean something, and if so then what, or if he's just reading too much into everything as usual. He may not always understand the social codes for these things, but he's seen enough movies to be pretty damn sure that inviting someone to your place for coffee is really inviting them for sex. And he's pretty sure he isn't that kind of guy. Well, not unless he's _really_ drunk. And this isn't just any woman, it's a woman who wasn't always a woman, which is a whole new level of terrifying just in itself, and it's even further complicated by the fact that he doesn't just _like_ this woman, he is enthralled by her, and this may not be love but he thinks it's infatuation at the very least.

They reach her flat and she unlocks the door, leading him inside, and they're in an open plan sitting room come kitchen. It's nicer than his in that it's an actual flat, even if it is a sixth floor walk-up, and he still isn't entirely sure how she does that every day in those heels, even for him the stairs are tough. His eyes flick around the room; it's drab (paint peeling in the corners, carpet loose by the door) but appears to have working heat, and he can tell from the coloured throws on the couch and arty prints on the wall that she has a woman's ability to make even the dullest place appear warm and homely - unlike the loft, home to four untidy men and pretty much falling down around them. 

"Sit yourself down," she gestures to a table with two chairs around it. "I'll make the coffee." He lets out a breath, feeling relieved that there is actually going to be coffee, and he hasn't just walked himself into a bizarre sexual situation that he doesn't really understand. Even after a year of living in the heart of the city so good they named it twice, he's still occasionally finding himself stumped by the realities of the life bohème. Like living from paycheck to paycheck without a dollar to spare (when there are paychecks, that is), the icy truths of the seasons without working heat, the normalcy of waking up to find a one-time stranger sitting on the table with a bowl of cereal, trading kisses or weed with one of his roommates. The Russian roulette of Alphabet City after dark. The reality of disease. He'd had to understand a lot of things very quickly, and sometimes it still shows.

He hears the clunk of the kettle behind him, the rattle of coffee beans hitting the bottom of an earthenware mug. He doesn't know what she's thinking, though. If she's expecting something from him, what she wants, what she thinks he wants. He wants her, he knows that, but does he want her so soon, like this? Call it another hangover from his Scarsdale upbringing, but he still has this idea in his head that sex is something special, that should be saved for - not for love, necessarily, but for something special, something more than just bored and horny. Such an exchange with another person should be meaningful. He'd had casual sex in college, a freakishly tall brunette at a wild, drunken frat party, and it had made him feel so cheap he'd never wanted to repeat the experience. He thinks there's probably something strange about spending half an hour in the shower after, scrubbing himself with soap. The stains of his vulgarity or some such. If he had a shrink they'd probably have a field day with all his neuroses. 

His Jewish middle-class morals aren't the only problem though. This is sex with - not a man, but not the kind of woman he's used to by any means. And okay, he's experimented with a friend or two, but he's not _that_ way and he has absolutely no idea what he's going to think when it comes down to it. He doesn't even know if she's had surgery, though he's guessing not by her noticeably flat chest, and is that something he feels able to cope with? Mark is over-analysing the situation, as usual. His body and mind have made it pretty clear what he wants to happen. He isn't normally impulsive, in fact he's never impulsive at all, but he _wants_ this and if he thinks about it any more he's going to rupture something. So as she puts the coffee down on the table and sits across from him, he leans over and kisses her.

Gently yet firmly, her hands flat against his shoulders, she pushes him away. He gapes at her, not understanding. "Angel, what-"

"Sweetie. I'm HIV." She smiles at him sadly. "We can't do this, I don't want to put you at risk."

"Fuck." He's shocked, of course. He doesn't understand how someone like her can have this curse upon her shoulders, someone with so much to give the world (and he hoped, to give him), and the film-making part of his mind, dormant ever since they met, wakes and decides that maybe this is why she looks so much like autumn. But she is beautiful and bright and everything he'd been missing, and he suddenly understands that Alphabet City and Collins have taught him that it's okay, and that little bit of risk doesn't matter to him if they're careful, and they don't even have to go that far. "No...I want you. We can be safe." And then from somewhere deep in his mind, words he didn't even know were there until he's saying them, "I just want to know you."

She frowns slightly. "Are you sure? The risk is lower if we don't fuck, but even it's still there." The swear word sounds strange on her lips, discordant. He'd much rather hear her curse in Spanish, passionate and fiery, than in his own flat tongue.

"Sure." He feels like he's never wanted anything more in his life. Bossy Nanette and careless, giggling Sandra and the freakishly tall brunette fade into insignificance beside her. For the first time in his sad bare existence, there is someone beautiful and kind and real standing in front of him, ready to give, and he wants nothing more than to give in return. He leans forward and gently places his lips to hers. 

Angel doesn't move, and for a horrible, gut-wrenching moment he thinks that somewhere down the line he's gotten it all wrong, and he's not allowed to do this, she's going to throw him out, him and his fucking dirty clothes and he'll have to go to the launderette as if nothing has happened and back to the loft with no memory of her skin or the feel of her spine. But then she softens, returns the kiss, her lips careful and pliant. She smells male, but fresh and familiar, and he kisses down her jaw and the line of her neck, feasting on her scent, surprised by the first scratch of stubble against his cheek but not concerned at all.

They both rise awkwardly, trying to be careful of the table edge and the two half-full mugs of coffee, and Mark steps straight forward to embrace her, bringing their bodies full flush against one another. Her chest is as flat as his, but he was expecting that and dismisses it. He knows in the back of his mind that he's acting like a horny teenager, but the thought flashes past as it is crowded out by her taste and the feel of her skin and the leg between his thighs and _oh God_ the pure sensation. As he moves back to kiss her on the mouth, hands tangling in her hair, the wig comes off in his hand - 

\- and suddenly, she's not quite herself any more. The Angel he's looking at now is a man in makeup, a man with finely shaped eyebrows and shimmering lip gloss and short, curly black hair with a band around it. Aghast, his hands fall down to his sides, still clutching the blonde hairpiece. He'd really thought it was real. Okay, he didn't think that much about it, but he had thought it was real. That this was her. That she wasn't just...dressing up. _Good to see you can recognise a drag queen when you see one._

He can't think what to do, or say, so he just stands and stares, blue eyes wide. She looks back at him wistfully, waiting to see if he's going to speak. He doesn't.

"You're not gay, are you?" She says at last, picking up the cups and walking past him, out of his eyeline.

"...not exactly, no," he says, bitterly wishing like fuck that he was. This amazing almost-woman had become something entirely different, and while he thinks he could deal with a flat chest and slim hips and even another cock, he doesn't want a _man_.

"I should have known, really," she says to the curve of his back. He can hear her moving around, the splosh of coffee down the sink, the clink of porcelain on the sideboard. " I _become_ a woman, Mark, I'm not trying to _be_ one. You see?"

He's silent for a while, deliberating. "Can I still film you?" he asks, quiet yet measured. He fell for someone who isn't really there, he can understand this now. If he can't have that woman, can't love her, this elusive female part of Angel that may be physically be a man but has the soul of a woman, then he can still capture her on film.

He's still looking at his nails, the nicks and dirt, his rough lined palms, but he can hear the smile in her voice. "Of course you can."


End file.
